Laws of Oleron
by LuxLoser
Summary: Shepard had spent her life running from the past. Always moving forward, never looking back. But after waking up on a slab of metal in a Cerberus facility, her past is all she has to ground herself in a sea of insanity, uncovering horrors even Cerberus renounced. With so many knives aimed at her back, at least she had a sniper covering her 6.
1. Awaken

"Père, why does the sea have laws?"

Antoine chuckled, face bemused at his daughter's strange and sudden question. He pulled on the ropes and finished the knot that had been the object of his attention. "What's that, Jeanne? Why does the sea have laws?"

The little girl nodded. Her fierce red hair was in long pigtails, and they bounced with the movements. She sat at the boat's bow, her little legs swinging back and forth under her seat. "You said that the sea isn't owned by anybody. But then you told Uncle Ahmed he had to listen to the 'laws of the sea'."

"Ah!" the man said, and the boat rocked as he went to his own seat in the middle. "So someone was eavesdropping on your Uncle and me in the garage, hm?"

Jeanne blushed but only shrugged. "So why does the ocean have laws?"

"Well everywhere is supposed to have laws, Jeanne. Laws, rules, codes, they are what make people people and not just animals."

"I know that, père. But how does the sea have laws if no one is in charge of it?"

"I see. You want to know who gave the sea laws."

Another energetic nod. Chuckling again, Antoine pulled on his scarlet beard. "Well... That's a hard one. A lot of people have tried to, over the years. History is full of attempts at one set of rules for sailors. And a lot of people will agree to one set or another depending on where they live. But over time, sailors have sort of... agreed that there are certain things that everyone needs to do, rules we generally all think are right. Those are the laws of the sea." It certainly wasn't that simple. But the vagaries of adult society would never satisfy Jeanne's young mind.

The girl was quiet for a bit. "Does space have laws?" she suddenly blurted out.

"Space?"

"Yeah. Mère called space an ocean. Are there laws of space?"

"Er... kind of. The Alliance makes the rules for humans in space."

Another bout of silence. Antoine picked up his fishing rod and cast the line out. His hand began to slowly turn the reel when Jeanne spoke again. "What were the first laws of the sea?"

He sighed. "Jeanne... remember what I said about fishing?"

"That I need to be quie— Oh."

Antoine shook his head with a smile. "I'll answer your question best I can. But then we shoosh, alright? Then, inshallah, we can catch some fish for your mère to cook up. OK?"

"OK! So answer!" Smiling, Jeanne closed her lips tight and pantomimed zipping them.

"Alright... so there were a lot of laws for the sea like I said." Antoine had to think, trying to find an answer Jeanne would like. Then he smiled. "The first one to _really_ work, or at least the only one that we, even all the way here on Mindoir, still talk to this day are the Laws of Oléron." He said the name with an air of mystique and wonder, and Jeanne leaned forward, awed.

"There was a... queen. A very powerful and respected queen named Eleanor of Aquitaine. She ruled England and France, places I've told you about. Well, she decided she wanted her sailors to all have one set of rules, one code of law for all the seas her people sailed. Oléron was an island, a port right in the middle of France, one that everyone knew. So it was there that the Laws were made. She sent out copies of the Laws out in English, in French, in Spanish, and a lot of people agreed to use them. Now there were rules like hers before then and after, but the Laws of Oléron are rules that even Mindois sailors like me and Uncle Ahmed still know about and still read about. So I would call them the first laws of the sea. Does that answer your question well enough?"

The girl first opened her mouth to speak, but then she remembered she was supposed to be silent. So she shut her jaw, teeth making a comical clack, and just nodded her head with a smile.

Antoine cast his line back out again. He loved his daughter, but her mind was a mystery to him. She was getting too smart, too curious. It wasn't a bad thing. But he knew that very soon, she would be asking questions he wouldn't have answers for, that no one would. And he could see in her bright green eyes that she would feel no choice but to pursue the answers herself.

For the moment he was content to let the fish nibble at his line as his daughter daydreamed about a beautiful queen and a fantastical island and strange rules that every sailor knew in their bones.

* * *

"Oléron..." Jane muttered, mind adrift to memories long forgotten.

"There. On the monitor. Something wrong," came a woman's voice, distorted and out of focus.

"She's reacting to outside stimuli. Showing an awareness of her surroundings," said a man.

Jane could barely see, and her heart hammered in her head. It looked like there was some kind of light above her.

_An operating room?_

"Oh my God, Miranda. I think she's waking up!"

_What does that mean? Where am I? What is going on? _

She couldn't remember. She couldn't remember anything at all. The machines around were going off as she tried to breathe, and her lungs burned like she'd been smoking. The people she heard speak were panicking, running around. Then, finally, there was the cold shock of medication surging into her system.

"—Run the numbers again," she heard the woman say, as unconsciousness crept in.

"Oléron..." Jane mumbled again, as the black crept into her vision more and more.

"The hell did she say?" the woman said. Then Jane's world ended again.

* * *

She awoke in the water. Her eyes went wide, trying to see through the fluid. It was pure and clean, and as it went into her lungs it still felt like a fresh breath of air. The world outside of the tank was dark but full of blinking stars. No, not stars, but lights on machines, producing readings she couldn't understand.

_Where am I?_

Jane pounded on the glass, hoping someone was there. It was hard to move her arms, and the tubes in her flesh pulled uncomfortably.

_Tubes?_

She looked at her body in horror. She was naked, and large metal hoses were shoved into her, under her skin, into her organs, locked into ports installed on her body. But that was not what alarmed her most, not what spiked her heart rate like adrenaline stabbed into her chest. It was instead the other changes to her physiology, and Jane's mind was flooded with fear.

She almost started to hyperventilate, panic creeping in. The tube's fluid still offered oxygen, but it was too heavy for her breathing to increase with how weak she was. The machines outside were beginning to go off, and the commander's green eyes snapped up as she saw movement in the shadows.

_Help me!_

The words screamed in her mind. There was a figure, hard to make out, that was growing closer. It was female, shorter, wearing a lab coat. As she came into the light of the tank, her glasses gleamed on her face.

"Fascinating… You shouldn't be conscious yet. We'll have to run the numbers again…" she mumbled out, words accented with a slow drawl.

Jane just pounded on the glass, and her lips mouthed, "Let me out!"

The scientist grinned, and it was full of malice and sadism. "I'm sorry, Commander. But this project has to continue. Dr. Abrams," she called behind her, "up the sedatives. But slowly, and be sure to use the newest formula. We can't be too careful."

A cold rush hit Jane as drugs began to flood her veins.

_No! No! LET ME OUT!_

Her body suddenly began to glow, biotic abilities flaring. Jane was equally as bewildered as the doctor. Since when did she have biotics? But her confusion lasted only half a second before she began to pound on the glass again, and this time spiderweb cracks spawned under her fists. They spread and spread as the scientists backed away in fear.

**Crack!**

The tank shattered, and the clear fluid inside gushed onto the floor. Jane fell with it, and she groaned in pain as tubes were yanked out of her back and arms. Blood seeped from fresh wounds, and whatever energy had filled her vanished. Exhaustion slammed against her as Jane began to pass out. Her mind began to wander. One moment she was in that lab. The next she was on a boat with her father. The lab. The boat. The lab. The boat, and then her old house, screaming with her parents, then her first posting in the Alliance, aboard the _Camus_. Then it was back to the boat, as life left her body.

Jane curled up, shards of glass digging into her skin. The scientist approached her, and Jane's arms moved on instinct. They curled around her stretched, bloated belly, trying feebly to protect the life growing inside it. "Oléron…" she mumbled, breathless.

The scientist sneered down at her in anger. "Prep the artificial womb, and tell Lilium we need a new one."

* * *

[A/N]: This story is based on many ideas I've had for Mass Effect. It will first cover events around Mass Effect 2 and 3, before moving to being a post-ME3 story, with occasional flashbacks. There will be significant canon divergence, and typical fanfic-level BS. Updates may be sporadic, as this is more a passion project for when I have time between everything else in my life. I hope you all enjoy where this story goes!


	2. Burial

It didn't feel real.

That was the only thought in Garrus's mind. He stared at the monument they had erected, the pillar they placed in the Presidium. He'd seen it from a distance the day before, one of many onlookers in the crowd. They offered to let him speak, to say a few words, to put down something in the annals of history to codify Commander Shepard.

He refused.

What words could he say? Shepard wasn't someone who could be summarized. Not to him. Hero didn't come close. Mentor said too little. Friend… friend was far too mundane.

_Besides… What did I even know about her?_

He hadn't even known her name. Commander Jane Shepard, the Butcher of Torfan. He had known that much, he'd even heard about her family dying to slavers. That had been a part of the Butcher's legend, a wrathful beast let off the Alliance's chain. A measure of just how ruthless humans could be, a cautionary tale to every other race who harbored ill will against them.

But he had never known Jeanne Pâtre, the name the Commander had left behind on Mindoir. And he had certainly never known Yuanna Al Ra'in bint Antuan. He didn't quite understand it, but from what he read, it was common for members of Shepard's religion to translate their names to avoid stigma in human society. Their untranslated name remained personal, spiritual. Almost a human equivalent of a soul name.

Spirits, Shepard _had a religion_. He'd thought she was an atheist, like most other humans. Had he ever seen her pray? He'd seen Ashley pray, she was never subtle about it. But maybe Shepard wasn't very devout, not dedicated. Or maybe she was, but private and more understanding of others' discomfort.

Did not such questions show how little he knew?

This woman he had idolized. He hadn't known her at all.

He was certain this was just a bad dream. A nightmare induced by nerves after he'd been told when his first evaluation for Spectre training was going to be. The training he was in because of Shepard, both her recommendation and her encouragement, giving him the strength of will to step away from his father's shadow.

That had to be it. It had to be, if it weren't for the evidence before him. Garrus could never ignore evidence.

His hand reached forward, shaking, claws tracing the intricate, swirling symbols a mason had carved. Tali had explained it to him the other day, speaking to him even when he remain taciturn and unreactive; in one of Shepard's native tongues, they would take names and create an artistic seal in calligraphy. His claws scrapped the marble. It looked like nothing he had ever seen Shepard write in or read.

The funeral had been just a blur. Garrus had ignored Tali's gratitude, Kaidan's heartbreak, Liara's tearful goodbye. He didn't want to hear their pain.

"Healing will never come without acceptance."

Garrus was startled. He whirled around, half expecting a fight. Who he saw should have disarmed him, but he only grew stiffer.

"Liara… Are you here to offer me spiritual guidance? That priest you sent my way last night already tried."

The asari scientist gave him a long, sad look. "The imam was trying to help, Garrus. He came to me to see about speaking to you. After _you_ refused to give a eulogy."

He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "That doesn't change the facts. I don't need some religious pep talk telling me how I should feel, what I should do. I don't need someone to ease my soul. Not some human priest, not you and your Goddess, not my own people's Spirits."

"It's not… Garrus, your _soul_ isn't what this is about. It's about your _mind_. Dr. Al-Baghdadi is a licensed psychiatrist, not just a cleric. He was offering help you with your grief—"

Garrus snarled and stepped in close. "I don't need a damn shrink, either! Why do you asari think the best solution for everything is to go rooting around in people's heads?!"

He regretted it the second the words had come out of him. It was Liara, someone innocent and kind, a friend who shared his pain. But Garrus didn't want a friend, or pity or even empathy. He just wanted to wake up from this, for it all to be an elaborate ruse, a deep cover op, or a tale of miraculous survival.

Liara, for her part, didn't react. She just stared him down. "You aren't alone, Garrus. I wish you would realize that."

She was right, but Garrus just pushed past her. It was irrational and selfish, but he wanted his grief to be his own, to be special and different. Even as he walked away, he knew how childish that was.

_Stupid… I wasn't anything special to her._

He had been some young hothead she felt the urge to help, to guide. He was one of many friends, and not even her closest. In the end he wasn't someone who should be mourning her deeper than even her lover. The thought struck him to message Kaidan. Maybe the human would understand, even offer the secret for how he was keeping himself more put together. But as quick as that thought had come, it was followed by a memory of Shepard.

She had come to see him, before Ilos, as he prepped the Mako. She was focused, mind on the mission, but she seemed to be more relaxed, less stress coiling in her sinews. His nose had wrinkled as he took in her scent and realized why.

"Stop!" he screamed at himself, drawing looks from passersby. They must have thought him insane. Sighing, he looked at the GPS on his omnitool. Taking a shuttle would be fastest to get to his apartment. But he was within walking distance. A long walk, but a feasible one.

The turian forced himself to do it, hoping to clear his head. He walked and walked, his feet hurting as his shoes slammed his talons into his toes. Shepard didn't leave his mind for a single step.

_What's wrong with me?_

The door to his apartment jammed like it always did, but he had no patience for it. Garrus forced it open, the gears grinding, before slamming it shut behind him. The walk hadn't done him any good.

It took two steps into the entrance hallway before he noticed something was amiss. He distinctly recalled leaving his umbrella to the left side of the coat closet, not the right. The forecast had been for rain, as was necessary for the Citadel's planet life, but Garrus had ultimately decided to leave later, after the rain had subsided.

The umbrella had moved.

All his melancholy and heartbreak seeped inside of him, bottled up and tucked away as soldiers' instincts rose to the fore. He always kept a concealed weapon on him, all C-SEC investigators did. The small pistol would be useless against any armor, but if a would-be assassin had hidden in his house, he doubted they would burden themselves too heavily.

The gun stayed down, at his thigh, and he had a normal gait as he resumed his walk. But he was now hyper-aware of every little detail. Just as he took a step into his living room, he caught movement, near imperceptible, in the shadows of his bathroom. Garrus spun, gun up, aiming straight into the doorway.

"I see you. Come out now and you go to C-SEC in handcuffs rather than a bodybag," he rumbled, and in case he was dealing with a turian, his sub-harmonics growled with lethal intentions.

There was silence. It lasted long enough for Garrus to wonder if maybe he was just being paranoid. Then he felt cold steel press against the back of his head, on the unplated hide of his neck. The barrel shape was unique enough for him to recognize it was a Carnifex. Even a graze would probably kill him at that close a range.

"Don't move turian," came a cold voice, distorted by some kind mask. In front of him, a hulking figure emerged from the bathroom. The size of a krogan, but clearly human or batarian, the figure stomped forward. "This doesn't have to get messy," the same voice said again from behind him.

Garrus snorted. "Something tells me you weren't intending to be subtle." That was when he felt a needle in his neck. Garrus stumbled forward, but he raised his gun and took a shot. The figure behind him let out a cry of pain. Looking to his left, Garrus saw the bigger assailant charging him.

As the giant brought his fist down, Garrus juked and punched the man's crotch. Regardless of species, it would be a weak spot. The giant grunted in pain, but he grabbed Garrus's arm. The turian was yanked up into the air, spun and thrown straight into the wall. He heard a pop as his back hit the painted gypsum board, and the photo of his family fell, smacking his head with a crack as the glass broke.

He grunted in pain, but raised his gun and fired. The sand-grain sized round missed, going over the giant's shoulder, and the force of the shot put a bullethole in the wall of his apartment. He fired again, and it hit the giant in the chest, but the figure didn't even flinch. Lumbering closer, his hand smashed Garrus's throat, and the gun fell from his weak grip. Garrus was dragged up the wall, and when he tried to slash with his exposed talons, the giant jostled him, head hitting the wall again. The room started to spin, whatever drug had been put in him was making him sluggish.

The second, smaller enemy walked up. Now that Garrus could see her, she was clearly female. "You just had to become a problem for us. No matter. You won't be a problem for much longer," she threatened ominously. Her needle was jabbed into his neck yet again, and this time the world went black. Garrus only had time for one more thought.

_See you soon, Jane..._

* * *

A gasp ripped from his throat as Garrus sat up in bed. He looked around, finding himself alone. He was undressed, laying on his bed. No mysterious assailants, no needle in his neck. The implications were clear, but Garrus still forced himself out of bed, and looked around.

His gun was on his dresser, it's usual place, and as he creeped into his living room, he didn't smell anything amiss. He found the wall devoid of any blood or bullet holes, and his family photo was uncracked and hanging in its proper place.

There was nothing to confirm that his hazy memories were real.

_A dream… A deathwish… _

It made sense. Trudging home from Shepard's grave, mind spiralling into a dark place. To be killed suddenly, by unknown enemies, one last fight before going off to whatever afterlife awaited. He probably just got too tired, stumbled to bed, and filled in the night with what he hoped for.

_Spirits, suicidal? Maybe I should see that psychiatrist…_

He sighed, and felt shame. Shepard wouldn't want him to act so pathetic, to break down with her gone. She had set him on the path to being a Spectre. That was how to honor her.

Garrus slowly got dressed, and readied himself to face the day.

* * *

"WHAT?!"

The entire seated audience turned to look at him. Mostly turians and salarians, a few asari. Each a candidate for the Spectres, the final twenty, narrowed down from a thousand. Garrus had felt proud to count himself amongst them, to be so close to being the one chosen to serve as a hand of the Council. Proud up until that moment.

The Council. He'd known they were political creatures, that Shepard had plenty of issues with them. But Garrus had always thought that the Council was wise, if skeptical. That they acted for the good of the galaxy, putting that before anything else.

"Is there a _problem_, Candidate Vakarian?" Sparatus asked, eyes narrowed.

"You're _dismissing _the Reapers?"

"The Reapers are a myth, a simple lie used by Saren to control the Geth."

"I was _there! _I heard Sovereign speak!"

"You heard what Saren wanted you, or rather what he wanted Commander Shepard to hear. Sovereign was just Saren's ship, likely with an on-board VI or even AI, but nothing so advanced as described."

"The damn thing destroyed the Alliance Fifth Fleet! It wasn't just a ship! How can you be so Spirits-damned _blind?!_"

"Candidate Vakarian, you should remember to whom you speak," warned Councilor Valern.

Garrus snarled, uncontrolled and uncaring. Sparatus and most of the turians in the room jumped, hearing his sub-harmonics rumbled in utter _rage_. It was rare to hear, what with their culture's emphasis on control and deference.

"I _thought_ I was speaking to the Council. The wise leaders we trust to guide us in dark times. Not idiotic _cowards _who rather bury their heads in the sand than accept an inconvenient truth! Not _scum _who would spit on and tarnish _everything _Shepard fought for!"

A member of the Council's security approached him, keen to escort him out. Sparatus shook his head and sighed. "I see the line of Vakarian has fallen far…"

Another snarl from Garrus. "When billions die, the blood will be on your hands, you fucking bastards!" The guard grabbed him roughly, and Garrus acted without thinking. He broke the hold, and his fist smashed into the guards face. The turian fell to the floor, holding his nose. There was a cacophony of mechanical clicks as guns were trained on Garrus, and he half-expected the room to open fire on him.

Garrus just glared, and marched for the door. As he hit the entrance, he felt compelled to get in one last word. "To think… Shepard didn't even hesitate to save all your lives. How quickly you disrespect the dead." Then he was gone, and in a hurry.

The second Garrus left, he knew a warrant for his arrest was probably being sent to C-SEC. He called a shuttle to his apartment. With plans on moving soon anyways, he already had transport crates. He threw clothes and guns inside the smallest one, having attended the earlier ceremony in his armor. Everything he needed fit into that one box; he left his pictures, paintings, cherished items, furniture.

Serving the Council clearly wouldn't honor Shepard. They'd buried her, and then they buried her legacy. Garrus wasn't entirely certain what he was going to do. But he knew he had to leave, to find some other way to be the hero Shepard inspired him to be.

At least he already knew of a place to go. His last case at C-SEC, a slaver who slipped through his fingers to the most infamous station in the Galaxy. It was beaten only by the Citadel in size, and only rivaled in debauchery by Illium: the station of Omega.

He exited the apartment carrying his crate, when a message appeared on his visor.

_F. CHELLICK: Be there in 5 min._

_F. CHELLICK: You need to be gone. Councilor wants your head._

_G. VAKARIAN: Already gone._

_F. CHELLICK: Be safe Garrus. For what it's worth, the recording of what happened is going viral. A lot more people are on your side than you might think._

He didn't respond further. He just moved down the staircase, and called a shuttle to Zakera Ward's departures. With luck, he wasn't yet on the run-risk list, and his passport would still work. Even from the line, he could see only one ship heading for Omega. He even recognized it, a vessel that had come up in plenty of cases as under suspicion for trafficking suspects away from the Citadel.

The asari handling processing took his passport, and Garrus tensed. But his fear was unfounded as the computer gave a blink of green light. He'd set his outgoing destination as Palaven, and he even paid for the ticket. All it took was a flash of his now-defunct C-SEC badge to get his cargo past the scanner. Once through the gates to the docks, however, he approached the crew of grimy looking transport freighter called the _Unlucky Ulysses_. Its captain was leaning against the ship, a human who looked like he'd been crossbred with a rodent.

"I need safe passage to Omega. Discreet. And I have the credits."

The human just grinned. "2,000, upfront."

Garrus didn't haggle. He put the funds on a chit he pulled from his pocket, and then handed it over.

"Name for the manifest?"

"Dr. Castis Heart."

"Welcome, aboard, Dr. Heart. Hope you enjoy your time on Omega."

* * *

[A/N]: Not completely happy with this chapter, but it gets things going. Garrus is going to be a major perspective character as well as Shepard, so I needed to get him in and start laying the groundwork for his role in the story. After all, there's no Shepard without Vakarian.

Oh and some may be confused on the names for Shepard; I'm just expanding the 'culture' of Mindoir I'm using for this fic. A population of predominantly European Muslims, and the Alliance is canonically mostly Atheist. Shepard was born with a French name for public and private use and an Arabic name for use in her faith. She will consider Jeanne her real name, Yuanna is just for certain occasions. More explanations on this and her name change will come in the future.


	3. Rebirth

Shepard woke up, slowly. As light poured into her eyes, feeling slowly came to her limbs. And everything _hurt_. Every joint ached, every bone felt bruised, every muscle was tight. Her face felt like it was splitting apart, every movement of her features feeling like a fresh wound was being pulled at.

"—pard! Shepard!"

It was the voice from before. One of them at least. Things were fuzzy, but that moment of consciousness stuck out to her.

"What's going on?" she slurred, "Where am I?"

The woman's answer was barely heard, Shepard still trying to process what was going on. "Weapons and Armor!" That was all Shepard heard. But that was enough.

She got up, and went to the locker. Vision still blurry, she strapped on the armor as quick as she could. "Hurry, Shepard!" the voice said.

Shepard scowled, and tightened the strap on her vambrace, grunting in pain. "عَلَى رِسْلِك (_Ala ris-lik)" _she muttered.

"What was that?" the woman snapped.

"I said calm down! I can't just teleport armor onto my body," Jane said. She pulled on the strap for her chest, tightening it against her chest, and she groaned as her collarbone protested with a nasty spike of pain. For a moment, she hesitated. She'd spoken Arabic… she hadn't done that in years. Sometimes she wondered if she even was still fluent.

That was, however, an irrelevant issue. Not unlike wondering where in the galaxy she even was. If there were hostiles out to get her, then they needed to be handled before any other questions mattered. She picked up the pistol and frowned.

It was one of the new kinds of pistols, the ones hitting the markets after Geth guns had been reverse-engineered. Meaning it hit harder with every shot, but it would destroy an omni-gel heat sink, and worse, the gun wasn't even loaded with one of the new disposable clips. "This pistol doesn't have a thermal clip. Damn it, why do you even have these?"

"A reload is faster than wasting precious time on a cooldown, Shepard! There are some clips nearby! Now get going!"

Jane decided right then that whoever the woman was, she didn't like her. Not one bit.

She moved into cover, and took aim at the mechs lumbering her way. They looked advanced, with movements that were almost fluid, and an aim and reaction speed that were better than her own.

_Cutting edge mechs… Designed for basic security? _

Something about that seemed off. They clearly weren't military-grade, not from the cheap materials that gave way to her pistol, or from the unnetworked and tacticsless VI that helpfully announced what it was doing. But the base tech itself made Jane curious — she was a soldier through and through, not an engineer, but she knew enough from her time fighting Geth to recognize quality robotics compared to the basic homunculi guarding Citadel warehouses.

Jane climbed the small set of stairs in front of her, and stopped in her tracks as she saw the massive mech through the glass. The people on the other side, there was no saving them. Jane frowned and uttered, "رَحِمَهُ ٱللّٰهُ (_Rahimahullah_)," before looking at herself in confusion. She couldn't ruminate at the strange outburst for too long before she was startled by the rocket hitting the glass. Seeing the blood seeping into the cracks, Jane sighed.

"I don't know what made me say it… but I meant it," she said aloud, speaking to the corpses past the glass.

Then she moved forward, and saw a man hurl a biotic blast at mechs across a chasm. He peaked from cover only for a round to glance off the railing.

Suddenly, Shepard wasn't on the station anymore. She wasn't 29 going on 30, about to fight mechs head on. Instead she was 16 going on 17, stumbling through smoke and debris. She didn't see the unknown man hiding behind a glass rail, she saw her Uncle Ahmed crouched behind a crate. He peaked up, only for a round from a batarian gun to glance off the crate. He ducked back down, and saw her tripping as she called out to him.

Her uncle held up his hand. "_Non! Laisse!_" he screamed, and she stopped in her tracks. A grenade went off beside him, and her eyes went wide. But then she was back in the strange station.

She shook herself out of what she hoped was only a fraction of a second's pause. Then Jane was running into cover beside the man who looked only tangentially like her long-dead Uncle Ahmed, her father's entirely unrelated fishing buddy.

"—doing here? I thought you were still a work in progress?"

Shepard realized Jacob was talking. "Are you with Miranda?"

"Yeah. Sorry, I forgot this all new to you right now. I'm Jacob Taylor, I've been stationed here for— Damn it!" He took a shot at the mechs, and Shepard readied her own weapon.

"We can talk after we kill these things!" she said, popping out of cover to plant two headshots in quick succession.

"No arguments, here!" said Taylor, and Jane decided she liked him. The fight was brief, with Jacob lifting the mechs up for her to blast. Her aim wasn't as steady as she was used to, but she chalked it up to whatever drugs were still in her system, or whatever surgeries must have been performed while she was under.

"Alright. What do you wanna know?"

That was a loaded question. Jane hesitated. What was most important?

"Where are we? This doesn't look like an Alliance base, or like any civilian hospital. Gravity doesn't feel natural either," she said, relying on every skill she'd developed as a warrior. "A space station?"

Jacob looked surprised. "Er… Yeah. This a C— Er, we're Project Lazarus. This facility is a specially designed station."

"For what purpose?"

"Just one: you."

"Me? I… The last thing I remember before waking up here was the Normandy being destroyed. I… _Merde, _I was spaced!" She looked around a bit. "So this is a medical facility? Just for me? Your ship must have been close by if you got to me in time…"

Jacob fidgeted a bit. "Actually, Commander… We weren't. We were there fast but… Well we scooped you up planetside. When I first saw you, you were just meat and tubes. You were _dead_, Commander. Project Lazarus brought you back."

Jane felt her stomach drop. "What? That isn't possible."

"I saw it happen, Commander. When we find Miranda, maybe she can show you harder proof than my word."

Back from the dead. There was a creeping panic in her gut, but Jane forced it down. Now wasn't the time. "Am I… a clone?"

"They wanted to bring you back just as you were. I'm pretty sure you're not a clone."

The answer was non-committal, devoid of information. Jacob clearly wasn't a scientist. He probably didn't know the details, he just did his job. And on that…

"Fine… I'll worry about my resurrection later. What's the situation on the station? Hostiles, straggling scientists, what are we looking at? And for that matter, Taylor, how do you fit into this?" Her words were clipped and direct, a commander of soldiers in the field. Jacob responded in kind.

"I'm head of security on this station. Woke up today and someone hacked our mechs. Had to be an inside job. Anyone still alive would be heading to the shuttles."

"Then let's move, Taylor."

* * *

"Did you have to shoot him in the head?" Jane let out, neither disturbed nor disgusted. She was more annoyed. Wilson's motivations, any possible accomplices, his methods, the timespan in which he planned and executed his scheme. All of it died with him. "You can't get information out of a dead man."

Miranda gave her a confused look before shrugging. Whatever she said, Jane wasn't really listening. With the shuttle dead ahead, and the traitor uncovered, her mind was drifting back to a few key facts.

She had died. She was _dead_. And now she wasn't. That was _not _supposed to happen. Scientists, theologians, philosophers, warriors, everyone was in agreement on that one. What died was supposed to stay dead, and if it didn't then it never came back as what it used to be. Husks, Thorian Creepers, Frankenstein's monster — if it rose from the grave it changed, an abomination that could not be considered the same as what had died.

_So what the fucking Hell am I now?_

"Shepard?"

Jane snapped her focus forward. "We should make sure no survivors are left."

"Shepard, this is the only way off this station. If they were alive, they'd be here. And what matters—"

"What matters are human lives. You won't leave without me. I'm not leaving without a full sweep. What areas haven't we been through?"

Miranda frowned, and it inevitably turned into a sneer.

_Maybe that's her face, not her._

Jacob turned to Shepard. "There's still the neurology lab. It's fairly separated from the rest of the base. The entrance is over there, but we'll be going past the main storage room. No telling how many mechs could be waiting to swarm out of there."

"Which is why it's a foolish idea," Miranda snapped.

"Let me be clear, Miranda. This is not an All for One situation. It's One for All. We will get everyone out we can."

And then they were off. The door opened after Miranda hacked it reluctantly, revealing an empty corridor. Jane took point, stepping slowly. "Tell me, Lawson; how much did it cost Cerberus to bring me back?"

"I didn't handle the finances. We got the job done. The Illusive Man gave us what we needed. Last estimates had us reach nearly 5 billion credits."

Jane snorted. "Surprisingly low price to play God. No, play _Messiah_."

Whatever smug reply was on Miranda's tongue died as a door opened. "Mechs!"

Eight LOKI mechs shuffled into view. "Hostiles Detected," they proclaimed in unison. The unnatural ring of their voice sent a shiver up Shepard's spine.

"Taylor, Lift!" she ordered, "Miranda?" she added, uncertain of the woman's abilities.

"On it," was her clipped reply, and she joined Jacob in sending the mechs into disarray, the half not sent up by Jacob being slammed down by her own power.

Jane took aim, and her pistol fired, each shot finding a mech not yet destroyed. One particle smashed through the head of the mech on the left, another through the chest of one floating in the air. Jane kept firing, until her clip burned bright and required ejection. She popped the heat sink, and five more bullets rendered the remaining mechs into scrap.

_These do hit harder, no cooldown… You're winning me over, gun._

"Shepard this is pointless. We're barely inside and look how many mechs we already had to take down. These scientists didn't even have weapons, let alone the training to—"

"Quiet… I hear something." Jane did hear something, but it was also satisfying to cut Miranda off.

They approached a door, metal but hinged, and voices poured out. There was a sign that marked the room as a storage closet.

"Michael! Stop!" came an older woman's voice.

A second woman, clearly in the midst of a sob, cried out, "They're going to send rescue!"

"Yes! YES! THEY WILL! So we have to _survive _until they get here! We have food! Rations! But not enough for THREE! But _just enough_ for TWO!" roared a male voice, manic and frantic.

Jane's eyes widened. She gave her companions a look and gestured to cover the door. Miranda went left, Jacob right, and Shepard readied to kick the door.

Then the world shifted, and she was on Mindoir, banging on a door, trying to get in as she heard the Batarians marching down the street. Chest heaving, mind racing, she finally picked up her foot and kicked the door down.

"_NO!_" came a scream, breaking Shepard from her memory. Jane kicked the door, but the crack of her boot hitting the metal was drowned out by the gunshot echoing in the moderately small room.

The handgun was wielded by a scrawny man who looked panicked, arm limp from being unused to recoil. Shepard had entered just in time to witness the mass effect accelerated particle leave the barrel of the gun and enter an old woman's face. The close range sent a hole the size of a fist through her skull and brain matter. The gore hit the shelves behind her, and she dropped limp. A portly woman cowering the corner screamed. The man, 'Michael' whipped around, and tried to raise the gun at Jane.

He never had the chance.

Miranda shoved past Jane, and fired her gun twice, and both shots hit Michael's chest. He fell to the floor, dead before he even heard the gun. The woman in the corner screamed again.

Jane scowled at Miranda and grabbed her wrist, throwing the woman's arm down. "Stop shooting unless I _tell you to shoot_," she growled.

Miranda jerked her arm out of Jane's grasp. "All due respect, commander, I am _not_ letting 2 years of my life become wasted by some deranged lab tech."

Jane opened her mouth to retort, when she heard a louder sob cut through the air. Ignoring Miranda for a moment, she approached the woman slowly. "Hey… hey, it's alright. It's over."

"H-he k-k-killed her! And then… and then and then and then," the woman sputtered, hyperventilating.

"Shhhh, it's OK now," Jane said, and she kneeled down. Her hands found the woman's face, mottled mauve and covered in snot and tears. "You're to be safe now. You're coming with us. What is your name?"

The woman looked startled, frightened even, as she looked into Jane's face. There was an odd red glow that Jane didn't know the source of. But her voice seemed to soothe.

"K-k-kathy. Kathy Ulvig." She was overweight, though not obese, with her hair in a braid. It was a sickly white-yellow, like it was stained, and it was frazzled and full of split-ends. But her large brown eyes were kind, and she had an air of innocence.

"You don't have to be afraid of me, Kathy. I'm here to help. Do you believe me?" The woman hesitated, but gave a slow nod, eyes flickering and recognizing Miranda and Jacob behind her. "Let's get you up, Kathy. So we can get you safe." Jane was careful, moving the woman up as gently as she could.

She moved Kathy out of the room, using her arm to turn the woman away from the gorey mess on one side. Jane looked at Miranda. "_Now _we can leave."

* * *

They left Kathy on the other side of the shuttle, wrapped in a blanket and falling asleep with the aid of some medication in the shuttle's first aid kit. The three gathered on the opposite seats, letting the woman rest.

Miranda looked at Jane, clearly unhappy.

"What?"

"It's just… Clearly we need to run some more tests, make sure everything is developing properly."

Jacob sighed, "Miranda, it's fine. You and I both just saw the Commander in action. Her combat skills are certainly on point."

"Yes but… It's been two years since the attack. The Illusive Man needs to know if Shepard's personality and memory are intact. We'll just ask a few questions."

_Two years… I've missed two years. The galaxy just spinning on by._

Jane cut in. "Fine. Just… let's get it over with."

Miranda nodded. Jacon just sighed again. "OK," he said, "records show you were a colonist. Lost your parents at sixteen in an attack. Enlisted soon afterward. You led Alliances forces against enemy forces, most notably on Torfan. Do you remember fighting batarian slavers?"

Jane clenched her jaw. "I did what I had to do. Mindoir, Elysium, they were unprovoked attacks, disrespect of sovereignty tied into a test of our resolve. The batarians had proof that the Council wouldn't intervene, so we had to show that we could do more than hold our own. They had to see that whatever force they offered, we would return in kind and more. I lost good men, sent too many to meet their maker. But that was what was asked of us."

Jacob nodded, "You got the job done. That's all that matters. Satisfied, Miranda?"

"Almost. Let's try something more recent," said Miranda. "Virmire, where you destroyed Saren's cloning facility. You had to leave one of your squad behind to die in the blast."

"Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams was killed in action. It was your call. Why did you make that decision?"

Mirands cut in, "And please, give us your _exact _reasoning, rational and emotional. Why did you let Williams die?"

Jane glared. "Are you trying to imply something, Lawson? I sent a soldier—a _friend_—to her death and I did _not_ do so happily. Nor did any of my feelings towards Lieutenant Alenko factor in. The bomb was paramount, we had to make sure it wasn't sabotaged or damaged. And as much as Kaidan is a noble soldier, I knew his feelings for me were interfering with his priorities."

"But you knew that applied to Williams as well. It doesn't take a genius to see that a death in battle was desirable for her, to recover her familial honor—"

Jane growled. "I knew that, Miranda. Ash… Ash's willingness for sacrifice wasn't rational, but she was a soldier through and through. She wouldn't put mission-critical objectives in jeopardy for a glorious death. But Kaidan would for someone he cared about. I let Ash have the good death she wanted, but the mission came first. And I don't need some silicone-filled scientist telling me that I didn't think long enough on which friend to leave to die in atomic fire!"

Jacob just gave Miranda a smug look. "Commander, make no mistake—everyone in Cerberus knows that base had to be destroyed. And we don't question your decision. Miranda?"

The woman hesitated but sighed. "Of course not. I just need to be sure your personality, your morals, are all still there. That was our end goal, not just physical revival. One last question; during Sovereign's attack on the Citadel, you ordered the Alliance fleet to save the Destiny Ascension: what happened after that?"

"They were grateful, and Humanity was given a seat on the Council. I told them I thought Udina would do well, but only if Captain Anderson felt himself unfit for the job."

"That matches what we know. Councilor Udina has been… aggressive as an advocate for Humanity. But your personal patronage to Anderson as your first choice saw him promoted to Rear Admiral," Jacob added helpfully.

Miranda leaned back in her seat. "Well… It all _seems_ to be there. Memory, morals, combat ability…"

Jacob shook his head. "Miranda it _is _all there. Any… peculiarities aren't that big a deal."

"They _are _a 'big deal', Jacob. Just not one we can worry about right now."

Jane raised an eyebrow and folded her arms, armor pieces clacking. "What are you two referring to? What 'peculiarities?'"

"Just the… accent," Jacob said.

Miranda shook her head. "It's not an accent, Jacob. You may have your translator on, but I turned mine off to be sure."

"Could you two just give me a straight answer?"

Miranda settled her eyes firmly on Jane, her eyes full of worry, suspicion, and uncertainty. "Shepard. You're speaking _French_ right now."

* * *

[A/N]: Much happier with chapter, and now the subtle but pertinent changes to Shepard's personality are appearing. This story is a hodge podge of a lot of ideas, as I said in Chapter 1. At that start here, my development of Mindoir is going to weigh heavily as Jane deals with death and resurrection.


	4. Endure

Jane's brow furrowed. Her mind slowed down and she focused on her own internal thoughts. And Miranda was right. She'd been thinking, and thus speaking, in French. If Jacob had an Alliance-standard translator, all he would hear was accented English, or whatever language he had it set to. Depending on the quality of the translator, there might have been a delay between when she opened her mouth and he heard her speech, but higher end tech could reduce that to fractions of a second thanks to Salarian-inspired VI.

"You're right…" Jane said, and she consciously made herself say it in English.

She herself knew English fluently, so her translator wasn't set to render English into French. In the modern age, people often had the habit of ignoring and no longer noticing lip-sync issues, being so accustomed to voices and mouth movements not lining up. Combined with the general urgency of the situation, and neither she nor Jacob could be blamed for not noticing the little things.

Miranda looked at her like she was expecting an explanation. Jane initially didn't have one. Then it hit her.

"I think I might know why—"

"Well I would love to hear it," Miranda interrupted.

Jane narrowed her eyes. "Then stop cutting me off." A sigh. "I've been having flashbacks since I woke up. To my childhood on Mindoir. Had a particularly vivid one right as I met up with Jacob."

"I'm not sure I follow," the man in question said.

"I grew up speaking French at home, and Arabic at the mosque. I learned English at school and became fluent when I enlisted. When I used to get traumatic episodes, flashbacks to what happened in the raid, I'd often be speaking French when I came out of them. Arabic too, on occasion." Jane frowned. "I haven't had a flashback in years though. Other than the odd nightmare, my post-traumatic stress was well managed before I d- Before I woke up."

"Wouldn't that have been on your file?" Miranda asked.

"Not when my doctor agreed to keep it off the record. She was sympathetic; I agreed to regular visits and she agreed to keep it quiet. The Alliance would have kicked me out if it was reported. She knew what it was like to want revenge." Karin had watched Shanxi burn, after all. Even as a doctor, she had an old pistol with notches in the grip for every "skullface," she'd managed to take out during the occupation and liberation. "If you want to track her down and interview her, you can. She can vouch that not only did she treat it, but my condition was perfectly manageable by the time I ever set foot on the Normandy."

Miranda stroked her chin. "Most likely it's a result of your resurrection. Perhaps your brain is still adjusting, cognitive functions having to reactivate after being stagnant. That could, theoretically, result in old memories being revisited anew. Like waking from a coma. There's… well there are numerous things we need to test to see if that's correct. Brain scans, bloodwork, psychological profiling, medical treatments."

It was Jacob's turn to cut in. "Nothing that should interfere with missions."

"We don't know that."

"Well I do," Jane said.

_These bastards sure love talking like I'm not here. Treating me like I'm still their lab rat._

"I know my limitations. What's happening now is nothing compared to my first years enlisted. Not even as bad as when I hit Torfan. If I could get the job done then, I can do it now." It struck her that maybe, just maybe, leveraging her flashbacks as a way to get out of working for Cerberus was a better idea. But her pride refused. Besides, she at least wanted to know their reasonings.

Miranda was not happy. But that wasn't Jane's problem.

* * *

The first stop for Jane at yet another top secret space station was not to see Miranda boss. Instead it was to the bathroom. The scientist, who in some regards was now her creator, was less than impressed by Jane's uncouth "I gotta piss." But she had directed the commander to the appropriate room regardless.

She had hoped to take a moment alone, splash her face, maybe slap herself until she woke up from whatever dream she was living. Instead Jane entered the bathroom and looked into the mirror, and a monster stared back.

The red glow emanating onto the young doctor. It had seemed odd at the time. But so many other things had.

_It was my face. My fucking face!_

The scars on her face were deep gouges. On the left it wasn't so horrid, a few lines on her brow, along the natural creases of her forehead, a mark on the cheek. But the right? It looked like someone had smashed a window with a bat, and her flesh was the window. From within the fissures game a warm red glow. The same glow was in her eyes, hot coals within what should have been the empty void of her pupils.

"Frankenstein's monster," she said out loud. It had been an exaggeration before. Now it was a declaration of fact. She had been pieces of dead flesh, now put together, sewn up. But all the technology and shortcuts used to claw her from the Fire (for surely her sins were too great for _Jannah_) were almost literally bursting her at the seams. How much of her was even still living tissue? Was she just a machine with a cloak of skin and hair stapled over it, like one of Joker's old Earth films?

Jane looked down at her hands, and found herself overanalyzing the skin on them. Did it seem more shiny than before? Or maybe less? More like rubber, less like skin? The nails seemed too well manicured; perhaps they were acrylic. Or maybe Miranda would do Jane's nails as she lied comatose, once she had finished doing her own of course. Neither idea was calming.

_Might be a good thing. My nails were always a pain to do. _

Jane's chest heaved as she strangled a cry in her chest. She wasn't one to cry often. The last time had been for Ashley. That had been but a single tear.

_Here I am, fighting a full blown sob over my own fate. Over coming back from the dead. How __**pathetic.**_

A memory jumped at her then. Uncle Ahmed had been standing at the front gate of their farm. His task had been to watch the children at play. Jane, Jeanne then, had been chasing her friends, Camille and Ismaïl. Jeanne tripped, and smacked her head on a stone. The cut it left was small but bright with blood. As she tried to get up, dazed, she heard a sob followed by laughter. Camille had grown scared that Jeanne had been badly hurt once she saw the blood. Ismaïl, certain his friend was fine, mocked his sister's tears.

Uncle Ahmed had stormed over. Once he checked that Jeanne's cut was superficial, he scolded his son with a frown. "A hard heart, _gamin, _is the root of misery. Don't mock your sisters tears. Tears are a mercy that Allah has placed in the essence of His servants," Ahemd had told him, quoting scripture with as much ease as the imam. "What is more human than to cry? You bark laughter at her like a dog, while she shows compassion for Jeanne."

_What is more human than to cry?_

She'd buried Mindoir. Her time there had been long forgotten for so many years. It wasn't a truly significant memory. Ismaïl never really learned the lesson his father was trying to teach, and Camille had been and was afterwards an oversensitive girl, crying over the smallest things. And Uncle Ahmed was being a hypocrite, as he was ever a stoic and proudly so. He hadn't even been using the quote correctly. Mohammed had been speaking of crying over the profound, not from fear.

In total, it was memory that had a hundred twins, and Jane was sure many of them were far more impactful. But Uncle Ahmed's words, his particular words, rang in her mind again and again.

_What is more human than to cry?_

Jane stopped fighting it. She let her chest shudder, let two hot tears roll down her face, which were forced to maneuver around the warm gouges below her eyes. It wasn't an opening of the floodgates. She quickly clamped down again. The tears were wiped away, her breathing put back under control. Partly it was habit snapling back in, partly she just knew it wasn't the time or place. It was just letting steam out of a rattling pipe, just for a moment. But it made the weight on her shoulders just a little lighter.

She let out a shaky sigh and looked at herself again. Despite the scars, she still looked like Jane Shepard. Though drowned by light, her irises were the same emerald, her hair the same fiery red that made every girl in basic demand proof it wasn't dyed. Jane ran a hand through said hair to try and relax, nails digging in as she self-soothed in a familiar way.

But something struck her then. First, her nails on her scalp felt less satisfying. That wasn't so bad. Less reactive nerves on her scalp weren't the end of the world. A new scalp could even mean less dandruff, if she was lucky. But her hair was also perfectly smooth. Perfectly. Unless Miranda had some wonder conditioner she had massaged into Jane's hair moments before the robots went insane, that wasn't right. Several firefights, running across warehouses and labs until her lungs burned, the ionizing shock of shields regenerating. There was no way her hair wouldn't have become a mess of kinks and knots and frizz and grime. It was one thing for it to fall in a way that _seemed _clean and orderly, especially when she had been fighting on a station. Stations were naturally frigid, unlike the sweat-inducing environment of a planet. But to actually _be_ fairly clean and orderly?

A jolt of panic hit her gut. Jane grabbed a single hair from the front of her head, wrapping it around one finger. With a tug, she yanked it from the root. Her lip quivered, just for a moment, as she activated her omni-tool, finding the chemical analysis app. Usually she never used such scientific tools for her own use. Normally she'd just scan whatever she was told to for someone else to breakdown. But for this she had to know.

"Scan." she commanded, holding out her hair like a piece of offensive matter. She begged for it to read back "Keratin - 100%" and let her just have that much. Instead the display took its time, before spitting out a list. Keratin, yes. But also silicone, acrylonitrile, and polyethylene-terephthalate. The hair on her head was barely more than a wig sutured on. Another sob racked her as she choked it down, but it was not out of sorrow or self-pity. It was a cry of anger, and again Jane let two tears seep out.

Screaming was what she wanted to do. Maybe punching. First of the mirror, then of Miranda. But the rage faded swiftly. Jane had never considered herself vain, and while she was attached to her hair, Project Lazarus had probably done the best it could. Jane took a breath as she rationalized. The sting of losing the one thing about herself she truly knew was beautiful was still there, but she stopped directing the rage out. There was no point.

Still, as she looked up in the mirror, she just saw a reanimated corpse with a wig. That was what she was. She just had to accept it.

"When I finally have time alone, I'll cry it out," she promised, speaking aloud to herself. "I'm still human by that much…"

* * *

Garrus didn't like what he was seeing. "Is this right? Garm had LOKIs manning his turf?"

Monteague just nodded, and pulled at his goatee. Weaver spoke for him. It was a habit of hers. "We fuckin' saw 'em ourselves. Whole of Arishi Block. Not one single Vorcha or Krogan in sight."

That didn't make any sense to Garrus. His mandibles gave a small flutter as a bad feeling crept into his gut. Garm hated mechs. He thought they were borderline useless, nothing compared to a trained, all organic thug. Even if that thug was a Vorcha. To use them meant he needed his men away from the frontlines of his territory. Even then, Garm definitely wouldn't _buy _mechs in bulk.

"Vortash," Garrus called, his voice ringing across the room, "You still have a backdoor into the Eclipse servers?"

"The fuck do you think?" the batarian growled back.

"Good. Check their financial records. Anything for a rental of mechs?"

"One second… Alright, looks like they did. Pretty large payments for 'mechanized private security teams'."

"Who from?"

"Definitely Blood Pack. I recognize the routing numbers. This one here is definitely one of Garm's off-station accounts. Same one he used to pay that krogan 'art' dealer."

Melenis scoffed. "Only Garm would have the ego to get a cast of his own dick and quad."

That got Monteague chuckling. "Still made it the funniest fucking thing when Vakarian beat the dealer with it."

"I think I asked back then, but I'll ask again; does that count as having given Garm a handjob by proxy, commander?"

Garrus rolled his eyes, a human and asari habit he had picked up from living amongst so many on Omega. "Vortash?"

"What?"

"Is it enough mechs to patrol Garm's turf in Arishi Block."

"Fuck no."

"Hmm, well th—"

"It's enough to patrol his entire territory on Omega."

That made the vigilante commander stop short. "If that's true… then he must be planning a full blown assault. Those men wouldn't just be shipped off-world for a job."

Weaver frowned. "Fuck… Fuck, you think he's fuckin' coming for us?"

Melenis weighed in. "When we dipped Jentha's transmissions last week, we all thought Tarak was mobilizing against us too. Nothing happened."

It was Sensat who answered her, right as Garrus had opened his mouth. The Salarian had been so busy working on his grenades no one had really noticed him. Which was fine; better that no one bother him when he was handling delicate explosives. "Or they delayed once they found out Garm was planning on it too."

Everyone was still. Blood Pack _and _Blue Suns? Hitting them with everything they had? It wasn't a comforting thought.

Sidonis entered the room a moment later. "What did I miss?" he asked.

"Blood Pack, Blue Suns. Might be working together to throw an army at us," Melenis replied in a clipped tone. She had yet to forgive Sidonis after their last row.

"We have that confirmed?" he asked, suddenly rather nervous. Garrus didn't blame him. Sidonis had a coward's heart. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, especially when it was combined with an idealistic brain and a touch of hero worship. Sidonis believed in Garrus, desperately at times. And once backed into a corner, no one was more dangerous than a coward.

"Garm is renting enough Eclipse mechs to cover his territory. Meaning he's gathering his men. We already believed Tarak was planning a hunt for us."

"B-but, Tarak never came!"

"No, but he might have just been waiting for Garm," Monteague added.

"Look, guys, this all sounds like speculation! We can't know yet. Plus we're fortified! I don't think we should obsess over this. Not when there are people in need of saving."

Garrus frowned at how quickly Sidonis had dismissed the threat. It seemed a touch foolish. But… "You're right. Garm and Tarak together, apart, or not at all. That's secondary to our mission. We will make Omega better."

"Aye, commander," Monteague said, snapping a salute. The others followed, and Garrus felt a pang of sorrow in his heart. His mission wasn't about saving the galaxy, it was saving one station. But he would dedicate himself to that mission. His mind, body, and spirit. He owed her that much.

"Sidonis, you messaged earlier that you got a tip on a weapons shipment?" Garrus then said, turning to the lankier turian.

"Yeah, yeah. Could be a Suns purchase, but I'm thinking it might be a new dealer trying to set up shop. Do you want to head out together?"

"No. I can take care of it myself, I think. You get some rest. Melenis? You're in command while I'm gone."

"Understood. Be safe, Vakarian."

Garrus walked to the weapons rack, holstering his guns on his back. He would complete his mission. There was a tide of evil coming closer and closer. But he would endure. He would make Omega safe. Then, one day, it could at least serve as a safe haven, or a forward base, once the Reapers began creeping in. Maybe he couldn't win the war, not like Shepard could have. But he would ensure the galaxy clung to life, if only for a little longer.

[A/N]: Special thanks to my few reviewers. My posting will likely always be sporadic, but your support does wonders for my motivation to write! Notes on this chapter, Jannah is the Islamic term for Heaven, as well as Eden. There are many poetic names for Hell in Islam, but many have a common theme: the Fire, Blazing Fire, the Blaze. So yes, Shepard is certain she was going to spend considerable amount of time in Hell. Credit to my girlfriend for the idea of Jane falling apart over her hair.


	5. Damnation

The Illusive Man.

_How utterly pretentious_.

That was all Jane could think as it became clear he was meeting via hologram rather than in person, even for her. Billions of his credits to make her, and he wouldn't even meet her face to face.

Of course, she was still shocked by what she saw when he approached her transmission. He was fairly old, old enough to have seen First Contact. He carried himself with confidence. Not overconfidence, but the calm, absolute certainty of knowing that he was two steps ahead. Someone like that would already make her uneasy. Then there were his eyes.

Her own implants had a hellish red glow, but it reminded Jane of glare from a chemical-basex photograph. The Illusive Man's blue eyes felt… demonic somehow. They gazed through her, into her soul. Maybe it was just the resemblance to Saren's eyes in that final battle. Or maybe Jane just recognized him for what he was. Certainly, she couldn't help the first words out of her mouth.

"جن (jinn)."

The Illusive Man quirked a brow and smirked. "I've been called many things. But a genie is a first."

At first Jane was a bit stunned. But she regained her composure, and fired back, "Jinns aren't exactly genies. At least not in the popular sense. Would you prefer Mephistopheles?"

He grinned at that. "Funny enough that _is _one I've been called before. But enough banter."

"I agree… So you're the Illusive Man. I thought we'd be meeting in person."

"A necessary precaution," he drawled out, flicking his cigarette before sipping his liquor, "For people who know what you and I know."

_As if this will stop the Reapers from finding you. Playing games like this only makes it harder to cooperate. _

"Tell me then; why did you do this? Why did you drag me back up? I assume it isn't for any usual Cerberus dirty work, not that I'd ever agree to that," she said, resisting the urge to step forward into his face.

His face quirked in a way that implied he found her exact words very interesting. Jane wondered if he would replay this conversation again and again to pull it apart. "You need to put aside personal feelings. Humanity is up against the greatest threat in our brief existence."

It was oddly refreshing to hear someone not on her crew recognize the gravity of what was coming. "The Reapers…"

"Good to see your memory is still intact." Had he really presumed she would end up that mentally damaged? "How are you feeling?"

It was an attempt to be friendly, to establish some kind of rapport that made them more than distanced associates. "I'm fine. Not as perfectly ready as Lawson dreamed, but two years of being dead takes more than ten minutes to shake off."

"Only 9 months dead, technically. At least that was when you were at a point of being considered legally living."

"My apologies. I didn't mean to offend the honor of your shadowy cabal of xenophobes."

The Illusive Man sighed. "Cerberus isn't as evil as you believe. We have the same goals, just different methods."

"And different morals and mentalities, but let's cut to the chase. What exactly are the Reapers doing that you decided to bring me back?"

As of taking his stage cue, Cerberus' leader stood dramatically. "We're at war. No one wants to admit it, but humanity is under attack. While you've been 'sleeping', entire colonies have been disappearing. Human colonies."

_Makes sense why they care. Still… they're willing to save everyone to save mankind. Not the most heroic goals, but I can work with this… _

"We believe it's someone working for the Reapers. Just as Saren and the geth aided Sovereign. You've seen it yourself. You've bested all of them. That's just one of the reasons we chose you."

"War isn't Cerberus' methods. Why such a direct approach?" She knew why Cerberus was acting. Mankind was being targeted, though she'd need to investigate if other species were being hit too.

"We are dedicated to the advancement and preservation of humanity," he replied, as if he were reciting a sales pitch. "And this is a direct attack by an enemy we cannot fight from the shadows, that we cannot best with espionage and infiltration. At least not yet. We can't wait for politicians and the Alliance to act. By the time they do, there won't be any human colonies left, and I will _not _let that happen."

_Not that part was genuine! But is it about the human lives? Or the hindrance to human expansion and power losing our colonies would cause?_

"But Sovereign was trying to harvest all life in the galaxy. Why would the Reapers target a few human colonies?"

"Hundreds of thousands of colonists have vanished. I'd say that fits the definition of 'harvesting'. Nobody's paying attention because it's random, and the attacks occur in random locations. I don't know _why _they've suddenly targeted humanity. Maybe you got their attention when you killed one of them."

There was a hint of pride on his voice. As if it was an honor to be enemy number one of the Reapers. For a human to have earned their ire so much as to see them prioritize mankind's demise did have a sort of honor to it, in a medieval, warmonger fashion. It was also just conceited enough an idea that Jane didn't know if she could believe it. On the topic of ego, she crossed her arms and said, "You could have trained an entire army, or built warships, or funded deep space expeditions for what you spent to drag me back."

"You're unique. Not just in ability or what you've experienced, but in what you represent. You stood for humanity at a key moment. You're more than a soldier. You're a symbol. And I don't know if the Reapers understand fear. But you killed one of them. They have to respect that."

"Unless they don't understand respect. We shouldn't presume to be able to comprehend them, jinn. But ultimately we don't have to. You made your point. After Mindoir, my story was a symbol for batarian attacks on humanity's honor, and after Torfan I was the symbol of why humanity was to be feared, if not respected. And now I'm the human who killed a Reaper." A thought crossed her mind. "And on the eve of their invasion, when they're plans started back up after I delayed them, I rise from the dead to slay them and save our species. You're trying to apotheosize me." It wasn't accusation in her voice, but recognition of fact.

"Apotheosis is a bit far. But, legends, and symbols have power. The kind of power to mobilize a species, if not the galaxy, to withstand what's coming." As his piercing gaze bored into her own, they shared an understanding. If he believed her ability as a soldier was enough, he'd have clones an army of her. If he believed her experience was enough, he'd have made a command AI out of her brain. If he thought both would have been enough, then he'd have done so.

He probably didn't really want Shepard. But he _needed _Shepard. Not a piece, not a part, not a replacement.

"If what you say is true… If the Reapers are behind this. I will help you," she said firmly. "But I need proof."

"I'd be disappointed if you accepted any of this without seeing for yourself. I have a shuttle ready to take you to Freedom's Progress, the latest colony to be abducted."

"Convenient timing."

"Convenient would be being able to stop the abduction. But as soon as Miranda messaged that you were awake, I began organizing this expedition. Go to Freedom's Progress. Find any clues you can. Who's abducting the colonies? Do they have any connection to the Reapers? _I _brought you back. It's up to you to do the rest."

Like a phantom, he vanished. For a moment, Jane was left wondering if he'd even been real, if she had just stared at a wall while her mind conjured the delusion of a devil with blue eyes.

* * *

She had returned from the 'meeting' room to find Jacob and Miranda already aware of their mission. Jane considered chatting them up; she always made time to get to know her team. Partly it was compassionate, as she genuinely hoped to foster camaraderie amongst her team, and partly it was cynical, as Jane knew full well that a person would always hold loyalty most the people who knew them best, to the one who knew their secrets and who had aided in their troubles.

But above all, it was tactical. Personality and personal history often factored more into battlefield situations than any soldier cared to admit. Tali, for instance, was a bit naive, and often overestimated how many enemies she could take on, standing out in the open when she needed to dive for cover, and yet as a quarian, she often had a hesitation to leave cover once she entered it. Ashley had been borderline suicidal in her assaults, but was also as obedient as a hound; it had been defiance of orders that had cost her family their honor after all.

Jane had a little portfolio in her head of each squadmate she'd ever served with. Even on Torfan. Everyone had flaws and strengths that arose from their emotions, and from their upbringing. Garrus was maybe the only one who broke the mold, but even he had become an open book to her. As a turian, he should have been obedient and calm in battle, with the only glaring flaw in the Hierarchy's training being that turians lacked adaptability. Garrus was certainly calm in battle, but he was almost too relaxed. Jane had come to know it was because he still clung to the idea that good always beat evil, and he believed himself to be the 'good guy,' even when the system was failing him. And Garrus was obedient, but there was always a microsecond of analysis. Not hesitation, but he preferred to think on the orders he'd been given, weigh if they were good. Over time, that had faded, as he came to trust her judgement and came to see her as different from the C-SEC brass he held in low regard. And what Garrus lacked wasn't adaptability, but confidence. When she gave him an objective, he could break from strict orders to complete it no problem, unlike most turians. But when he needed to act autonomously, he froze up.

For a long time, Jane hadn't known why. It was as she and Garrus spoke that she came to know about his father and about his strained relationship with him. It wasn't just a difference of opinion between them. Garrus had always been too individual for turian standard, while his father was one of the collective. With less harsh standards, Garrus might have developed into a compliant member of the Hierarchy on his own, albeit one with more ambition and drive. But under Castis' parenting, he instead railed against the unachievable goals put before him.

Her knowledge of Garrus was why Jane always trusted him at her side. She knew him inside and out, like any weapon in her arsenal, and so she always knew when and how to utilize him. Not to mention that while Tali's loyalty was to her Fleet, Ashley and Kaiden to the Alliance, Wrex to his credits, and Liara to her research, Garrus' only loyalty was to her. She knew him better than his family did, and in turn he idolized her, sought to emulate her. He was the kid brother, or even just the young protege she'd never had.

_I wonder what he's up to. Probably kicking ass at the hip of an elder Spectre. Or maybe he's done with training. _

Jane set aside a sudden rush of longing for a familiar face. There wasn't anything to be done about it yet. Ultimately she delayed speaking with Lawson and Taylor. Instead she hit the station's armory. Lazarus had kitted her in an attempted facsimile of N7 gear, but not only had it suffered damage, but the armor's quality left much to be desired. Clearly, Cerberus had been favoring form over function. Maybe to help her adjust during a proper wake up process, or just to keep her at ease, offering armor and a gun to demonstrate she wasn't a prisoner.

Whatever their reasoning, it wouldn't suffice for an encounter with an unknown enemy that kidnapped entire colonies. Miranda had stated that a number of armor sets were available, and tailored just for her.

_Not creepy at all…_

Jane chalked it up to the idea that the Illusive Man had several such sets made a while ago. Maybe this station was supposed to be a forward base, or maybe they had just been transferred from somewhere else once word came that Lazarus was compromised. She opted to keep the faux-N7 greaves, as they were both decently made and the most comfortable, but she grabbed the Kestrel chestplate and shoulder guards as soon as the readout said they specialized in shield regeneration.

Firefights were about putting rounds down sight, but good shielding could turn a horrific onslaught into a winnable war of attrition. But she still needed good armor on her hands and on her head, as those were the first targets to get picked at when shields failed. Hence why she took the gauntlets and helmet off the so-called "Cerberus Assault Armor." As much as she loathed taking on the gear of even Cerberus' most elite shock troops, it was of good make and sturdy, exactly what she needed. She did, however, snap on a Kuwashii visor into the helmet. Garrus sang praises of having a visor, and if the helmet had to be discarded, Jane would still have a HUD to coordinate with.

After selecting each piece from a database, she had to wait for a machine to fetch each armor piece from the storage. While the selection on hand was tolerable, Jane groaned once the armor was actually sitting before her. A custom paint job had been applied, and she'd been unable to alter it. The armor had been painted black, but the right arm had a stripe down the side like her N7 gear, and while bordered in white the familiar crimson was replaced by Cerberus' yellow-orange. Similarly, the same color was the strip on top of her helmet, and exactly where the N7 insignia had been on her old armor's chestplate, there was a small, white and gold Cerberus logo.

Clearly, the paint scheme had been pre-designed into the fabricator intentionally. No matter what she wished, no matter where she went, Jane would be in the colors of Cerberus, flying their flag in a pattern that was a mockery of her old gear.

_He called me a symbol. And in black and red, I was a symbol of the Alliance. Now he's making me a symbol of Cerberus._

Jane couldn't be too angry. After Torfan, the Alliance had quite literally draped her in their flag for a few posters. It only made sense that the Illusive Man would capitalize on an opportunity to associate Cerberus and Jane Shepard together. She could, however, be a little angry, as she exited the armory. Her helmet was under her arm, and she idly began to calibrate her visor's outputs as she muttered to herself.

"That نصاب (_nassaab_) had better be right or I'm going to shove his cigarette up his ass. _Fils de pute_, making strut around like a _pitre_ wearing this…" she muttered, weaving in and out of her three dialects in rapid succession as she rejoined her squadmates.

_Handlers more like._

She shut her mouth at that thought. Lawson would probably go squealing to her boss if she overheard Jane's curses. Taking one last moment to sigh, she steeled herself for a first attempt at being friendly with the two people who would have to watch her back soon.

* * *

The massive figure stomped along the hallway that barely had enough space for his bulk. The small scientist in front of him typed away on her omni-tool. As they entered a new room, the ceiling went higher, and the figure rolled his shoulders, able to finally stand up straight.

"Don't relax too much, Ajax," the doctor called as she made her way to one of the computers in the large room. "We still have plenty of work to do."

Ajax just gave a slow nod. "Y-yesss, mah-ahm," he slurred, his own tongue ill fitting for his mouth.

"Why don't we start with your replacement?" she said, as clinical as could be. In response, Ajax lumbered over to one of the eight sealed chambers in the room. Each was a sort of rounded cube of orange tinted glass. As he approached the chamber in the center of the left wall, there was a hiss as the hermetic seal was broken. The top half of the cube rose up slowly, allowing Ajax to reach inside. He lifted out a small child, a toddler that was sound asleep. Despite his size, Ajax had a gentle hold on the child.

The toddler squirmed a bit, but its rest was not disturbed as Ajax carried it over to the doctor. The toddler's skin was a pinkish-orange, and the doctor began to carefully examine it. "Subject remains healthy. No sign of the degeneration suffered by the previous subject," she said calmly, her visor recording everything she saw. "Hands remain oligodactyl, as expected, though they are uneven. As reported at decanting, subject possesses three digits on the right hand, but four on the left. Musculature thus far indicates that this should not pose a major issue."

The doctor reached her pen forward then. "Browplates remain somewhat soft; hardening has been delayed compared to Ajax, but it is hardening at a faster rate now than his ever did. Fusion of the plates into a singular piece may occur far sooner than normal for krogan young. Perhaps affected by human fusion of cranium? Will require further study." As she spoke, her pen prodded the handful of roughly triangular plates that grow on the toddler's forehead.

"Alright. Put him away," she ordered, and Ajax complied. As he placed the child back into its chamber, the doctor used her omni-tool to open another of the chambers, this one in the far right corner of the room. "Come on out, Orion," she said firmly, "It's examination day."

From within the opened chamber, a reverberating voice trilled back, "That ain't my name."

The doctor sighed. "It would be 'isn't', Orion, that _isn't _my name. Not ain't. Ain't _isn't _a word."

"It is in Cipritian."

"Low Cipritian contains a contraction for the singular present of am and is with 'not' but said word _isn't _present in Middle, High, or Classical Cipritian. And really, you ought to be improving your English and Spanish before moving on to those languages."

The child in the chamber, obscured in shadow, frowned. "They don't sound right in my mouth."

The doctor shook her head. "I don't much care, Orion. Now enough stalling. Get over here."

"I said that isn't my name!" the child shouted back. The doctor scowled and turned to Ajax.

"Prod him. I don't have any more time for his insolence," she ordered. Ajax almost hesitated. Almost. Instead he reached to his belt and draw his baton, the end of which crackled with electricity. Moving quicker than his large body ought to, he approached the open cube rapidly.

"It's not my name! It's not my name! My name is O-"

The name died on the boy's lips, as Ajax's baton pressed onto his bare chest. He collapsed from the pain and energy. As he fell forward, Ajax caught him, and began to haul the boy from his chamber to be examined.

"Of course the fucking skullface is the one causing me Hell," the doctor griped. "At this rate I might as well have him expunged, and get a new batch ready." A scoff. "The things I do for this job…"

[A/N]: The first section was originally part of Chapter 4, but it felt like it would be better here, and Chapter 4 was already at a good length. I felt it was a good time to bring up the more... original aspects Im putting into this fic, returning to the facility briefly teased in the first chapter. Given how much repeat of canonical dialogue I have had, this felt like a good way to spice up the chapter. Don't worry, I'll be only doing these kinds of sections sparingly, as I want Shepard and Garrus to be the bigger focus.


End file.
